Yellow Fever
by agapimou34
Summary: Hawkeye comes down with yellow fever, and the disease takes a dangerous turn. Watch the events unfold from the point of view of everybody's favorite head nurse. Warning: heartbreak and tears are common symptoms of this story. Tissue boxes may be necessary.
1. Chapter 1

It was yellow fever. He had passed out cold one night in the OR, and since then nobody could believe how fast things went downhill. The Chief Surgeon was the talk of the camp, heck, whole area. Patients and even some officers from the 8063rd had all heard about the doctor who caught yellow fever. Margaret had smirked at first, when Hawkeye was lucid enough to grin at the squad of nurses surrounding him, cooing and worrying over him and leaving a mountain of get-well flowers and cards. But then it had taken a turn for the worst no one had seen coming.

BJ spent countless nights by his side, whispering words of comfort in his ear, stroking the jaundice-colored lithe hand with a level of concern that could reduce anybody who saw it to tears. It wasn't supposed to be this bad- yellow fever was rare, especially in Korea. But somehow, someway, Hawkeye Pierce had managed to contract the worst case of it. BJ was heartbroken when he found out he had to leave his friend's side to go to Seoul for antibiotics, but trusted the 4077th to keep Hawkeye going until he got back.

The next four days would be the worst. BJ would spend the first three days either lying next to or sitting beside his friend, who drifted in and out of a terrifyingly high fever delirium. 104 was the average for the disease. Hawkeye's temperature spiked to 105.6. Margaret remembered that night like it was only a few moments ago- the feeling of her heart in her throat choking her as they moved the fiery body into a tub of ice, hooking up dozens of fluids in an attempt to desperately stop his body from literally burning itself alive. It had worked- albeit not cured, but it seemingly fought an unimaginable fate out the door and gave them all their wits back after insane worry.

On the third day, right before BJ left for Seoul, Margaret sat watching him pack his suitcase as she brushed back strands of dark hair from everybody's favorite captain.

"He'll be fine, you know," He said to her for what seemed like the millionth time, "yellow fever is a bacterial infection, not a deadly condition. My great uncle had it in WWII, he's 85 and swears by a glass of whiskey a day." Margaret had smiled, but she wondered if BJ was trying to reassure her or himself. The sharp decline of Hawkeye's health had shocked all the doctors, left colonel baffled and Charles searching every medical encyclopedia under the sun for a logical explanation. The head nurse knew BJ was beyond any of these emotions, though. She knew he was struggling to keep it all together, saw right through his brave face. The truth was, the golden haired doctor and Hawkeye were once blood brothers in another life. She can almost be positive of it. Anybody with eyes could see the strong familial protectiveness in every gentle touch, every reassuring whisper, every glance of concern BJ showed towards his friend. And in a place as dark as Korea, in a world full of bloodshed and war, people clung to any kind of family like a drowning man to a lifeboat.

Charles watched from the door with pained eyes as BJ told Hawkeye he was leaving. The captain was unconscious, of course, but the man spoke to him like they were carrying on a serious conversation. Hunnicutt placed an awkward, yet heartfelt kiss to his friend's forehead before standing to leave, uniform and all. He gave both majors a tentative smile, but his eyes were wet with unshed tears of pure worry.

Everyone had rushed out to see him off, nurses clamoring to pat his hands, offering some kind of comfort, while the rest assured him that Hawkeye would be safe with them. BJ only thanked the camp and told the well-wishers that he'd be back in no time with the medicine, whilst Colonel and Charles cursed i corps for not being available to just ship them the vials. Klinger honked the horn and Father did his cross as the doctor drove away, leaving Margaret in charge of nursing the camp's sickest patient until his brother got back.

"Hawkeye, time for your meds," Margaret called, walking shakily back into the swamp with a glass bottle and IV tube. She felt her stomach clench in dread every time she went to see him. Which was, give or take, almost every second of every day since BJ left for Seoul. She just couldn't bear it sometimes, which was odd because everyone expected her to be the strong, stonewall Major Houlihan, never someone who cries or, for god sake, feels pain. She did. In fact, she carried most of everybody else's along with her own. She had grown so used to putting on a firm, orderly giving outside because that's what the camp needed. Her nurses would run away in delirium fright and chaos if she wasn't the guiding light, the leader she's supposed to be. And sometimes, she was sure that she was the only one left who knew what was beneath all that- the weary, terrified Irish girl from California who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"C'mon, lazy bones, I don't got all day, you know," she exclaimed shamelessly loud to Hawkeye, who was asleep with one hand dangling off the side of the cot and his legs tangled underneath the covers. His black hair was mussed and sticking out in all directions, and it reminded her so much of a little boy that she had to stifle a laugh.

"Hawkeye," she smirked, setting the tray of medication down on the bedside table with a clatter, "c'mon, honey, I need you to wake up for me to do this," she said a bit softer. She reached for his hand, and no sooner than the second she felt his skin did she gasp and drop the IV bottle, which shattered on the ground into a thousand pieces. She stumbled back from him, her hand recoiled to her chest like he'd been on fire, though the truth couldn't be more opposite than that.

He was cold. He was too cold. So cold that it set off every alarm bell in her body, sucked the air right from lungs, made her heart sink to her toes in a dizzying motion that already intensified her growing nausea. The dread was so strong that she felt her muscles weaken in an oddly numb sensation, legs shaking.

"H-Hawkeye?" It was more of a statement than a question. Without thinking, she fell to her knees at his side, shaking him. She only touched what his shirt covered, though, for fear of dissolving away if she felt the cold once more. Everything seemed to be going into double vision right before her. "C-Captain, c'mon, you gotta take your medicine now," her voice was wavering so badly that she realized in horror she couldn't recognize it herself. "Hawkeye!" She dared to speak louder, but shrank away as she saw his head loll to the side, eyes still closed. His skin was so pale... An eerie kind of shade that reminded her of moonlight... His face was expressionless, gray eyes closed.

Margaret watched and waited to see the familiar rise and fall of his chest, waited... And waited... And waited... And waited, until after what seemed like an eternity, her hand flew to her mouth and she shook her head in terror, eyes wide and body wavering. Her heart beat loud in her ears as she stumbled back over to him, falling at the last step and landing painfully at his side. She didn't care, though, as she witnessed with an odd, unfeeling sensation the faint blue color that was lined around the lips she kissed so many times. It was then that she understood.

And for a moment, she let it all go. All her major attitude, all her cares of how she looked and acted and what her place was here, her patriotic spirit to be the first woman soldier, because how could she ever be patriotic again when the war and country she believed with such fervor were for the greater good killed her best friend? Her lover? Her hope and ray of light in the darkness? The red white and blue she so often boasted about had betrayed her. It had stabbed her in the back unlike anything ever before, with a ruthless cold jab. She let go of all her pride and all she ever thought she was or should be. And she screamed. As loud as she possibly could, a heart wrenching, ear splitting cry that was almost unnatural, a wail that would haunt anyone who heard it and rival a banshee's keen. She howled like she was on fire and the utmost pain had seized her body. And she mourned not as the Major Houlihan whom everybody knew, but as the weary irish girl from California who'd lost her lover and everything they could ever be together.

She was too far gone to notice when people had started rushing into the swamp at her screams. Colonel Potter and Charles sprinting in, the nurses filing soon after. There was a pandemonium of keening and wailing, women sobbing. But no one was shrieking as loud as she was. All the nurses watched in horror as their Major broke down right in front of them, the firm, all American Margaret Hot Lips Houlihan crying in such a raw, almost animal like fashion that could break anyone's heart.

Someone's hands were on her shoulders, guiding her away from the body of her friend. And after that, she gave in to the fringes of oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

She awoke sore and stiff, her face dry and raw from tears. She sat up slowly, looking around to see that she was in her room, on her cot, her shoes taken off and set neatly on the ground. She was empty inside. It found her with a strange sensation of nothingness, like her heart was all washed out, like she had no tears left to cry. Like Margaret Houlihan died with Hawkeye, and there was nothing left but a shell of a woman with wispy blonde hair that fell in strands across her tear stained, haunted face.

BJ hadn't been there. BJ hadn't held him in his last moments. No one had. She herself had finished giving him his medication, and then she left. He simply fell asleep and never woke up. Hawkeye Pierce was dead.

She felt an overwhelming wave of nausea at the thought and just barely made it to the wastebasket in time. When she was done emptying her stomach of its meager contents, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stumbled to the door. It was morning now- she must have slept through the night. She walked aimlessly like a ghost through the camp, floating around on emptiness before a touch dragged her back to earth. She looked to see nurse Kelleye with a gentle hand on her arm, round face somber.

"Major? Are you alright? I'm sorry nobody was with you when you woke up, we've been…" She swallowed, "busy. Let's go get some breakfast, ok?"

Margaret found with odd fascination that she could not speak. Her voice wasn't lost, she knew because her throat felt fine. She just couldn't talk. It was the strangest thing. So, she nodded numbly and allowed Kelleye to guide her to the mess tent with a calming hand on her back. She wondered what they'd done with Hawkeye's body.

Everybody peered up, some with red, puffy faces, as Margaret entered the room. Kelleye silenced them all with a look, though, as they walked in.

"Here, Major, let's get you something to eat." Kelleye murmured softly, sitting Margaret down at a table before returning with a tray of food. In truth, she wasn't hungry. She felt rather full, actually, like she could go without eating for a thousand years.

Kelleye sighed after a few minutes of silence, noticing everybody was still staring with concern etched in their faces. "Oh, Margaret… We're all broken hearted. It's… It's going to be ok, though, I promise." A few nurses stifled sobs, and even some doctors had tears cascading down their faces.

"Where's BJ?" Her voice surprised her, scratchy and hollow, like an old woman's. It was foreign to her.

"He got back about five hours ago," Kelleye answered softly, wiping a tear from her eye.

At the mention of BJ, everybody was sent into a new wave of crying. Margaret didn't have to wonder why. "And the body?" She rasped. She didn't even care anymore. Why should a ghost feel?

Kelleye's eyes widened in sorrow and horror as she looked away, avoiding her superior's gaze. "Captain Hunnicutt is still with him…"


	3. Chapter 3

**I apologize for any animal or medical inaccuracies! I own nothing!**

Her footsteps seemed to echo in a deafening volume as she shuffled over to BJ, the dim lighting casting shadows across the tent. All was silent inside the swamp, but outside you could hear a symphony of murmurings and whispers, countless mourning sobs from nurses, hushed words muttered from doctors. Jeeps had been arriving from all over the area since morning, people coming to pay their respects. Even a Korean family of five daughters and one son, the parents whom Hawkeye had performed emergency life-saving surgery on, coming to grieve with incense and traditional Korean spirit wishes.

But inside, BJ was silent, standing over the body of his brother in arms. A white sheet had been drawn over him, covering all but the one pale, lifeless hand that BJ had been clutching for over five hours. Five hours of him standing there. He hadn't taken a break once, hadn't spoken a single word.

Sydney Freedman had been called in earlier, and advised the colonel to leave him alone. Something about the grieving process and such. But as Margaret approached him slowly, he thought there was no process at all. No organization, nothing to be decided. Hawkeye was dead, plain and simple. He was never coming back. He would never joke in the mess tent again, never charm another nurse. He'd never save another life. And to think, he'd survived the whole damn war and it wasn't even a weapon that stole away his breath. No, it was just a common disease that the unit had treated many patients for. But only Hawkeye had managed to die from it.

She stood there, unsure of what to do or say. What words were there left to give? She had failed. They had all failed. She promised BJ she would take good care of him, that he would be just fine. All he did was take a quick trip to Seoul to get the medication that would save Hawk's life. Just a tiny vial, simple and made out of glass. That was all he needed. But it had been too late. And now, it was over. It was done, the stone had been set, and the time had been called. _How funny,_ Margaret thought deliriously, _how strange is it that while the world is imploding with shells and bullets around us, life goes on? Birds still chirp, the sun still rises, grass still grows… Yellow Fever still kills. Such an insignificant waste of life_ , she mulled, _such blood and gore and death for what? For power? For the sake of mankind's anti-communism fight? For a brighter future?_ What would all this give them? Nothing had changed, no quarrels had been resolved. She had lost all sense of patriotism, every bit of army loyalty. All those long days Hawkeye would bemoan the young age of the wounded and cast all his bitterness upon the U.S. army, accusing and disgracing the name of the red white and blue. Margaret had frowned upon him then, been so sure that he was stupid for his lack of pride in their cause which she believed was for the better.

But now… Now _she_ felt like the fool. _You were right,_ she thought, _you were right all along, Hawkeye. It's all for naught, isn't it? God, I must've sounded so dumb going off about the war like I did. How could you stand me? Did you stand me?_ Margaret paused as she dared think the thought, _did you love me as much as I loved you?_

She swallowed hard, taking a small step towards BJ. She felt as though she'd crossed an ocean. She wanted to say something, anything! A word of comfort, assurance of some sort… But she couldn't even assure herself. So, she raised a violently shaking hand and carefully rested it on his shoulder, squeezing as much as she dared.

Something lifted in her that day when BJ squeezed back.

She looked to see, in horror, that the blonde doctor's legs were quivering. Probably from standing so long, she thought. His shoulders were hunched, his arms tensed. And she realized that if they let him, he would stand here until Hawkeye's bones disintegrated and became one with the earth from which they all came. He would wait here for all eternity. And even though he had a wife and daughter, a family back home, he had one here, too. One that was just as important, maybe even more so, because only they could understand what they've been through. No wife or husband or daughter or son back home, though their intentions may be noble, could ever remedy their sorrow and scars.

Margaret remembered Radar telling her once as they walked through the camp about horses. She had always dismissed the young clerk's words as idle chatter or nervous announcements, but this particular conversation had stayed with her. He had told her that when horses lost a member of the herd, they would stand in the same spot for three days and mourn it, even longer if it was a foal. It stabbed her dully in the stomach, the knowledge that the death of loved one was so strong, so cutting and vicious, even animals could feel it.

And now, standing in the scene before her, she no longer saw the olive drab tent walls, nor the cold metal operating table Hawkeye was laying on. She saw two horses.


	4. Chapter 4

Margaret never believed the saying 'it could always be worse'. She thought that this was it- this was how rock bottom felt. Empty, cold, alone, bursting and tortuous and manic all at once. But she was wrong.

She sat at Rosie's that night, but no matter how many scotches she seemed to down, she was still sober as ever. Such a painful reality was inescapable, even in the once blissful embrace of alcohol.

That's when the news spread. The route to Tokyo was under heavy artillery fire, pounded by Chinese air forces. No planes would be getting in or out of the entire area for two weeks.

Hawkeye was to be buried in Korea.

Margaret dissolved into tears again just thinking about it, slumping down onto the cold wooden table and clenching her glass in an iron grip. He'd never go home. Not even in death. That tiny cottage by the sea in Crabapple Cove he'd talk so fondly about would never be his final resting place. His father would never get to kiss him goodbye as he'd done with his wife years ago.

No, instead he'd be buried in the hard, dry soil of war-torn Korea. There was no defined, civilized land plot. Just whatever field wasn't currently ravaged by landmines. His flesh would decompose, and his bones would fade away. And the war would just keep on going. It was tragic and it was vile, it was unlike anything she'd ever known before.

A knock on the door of the empty tent jolted the Major from her thoughts, and a hesitant nurse Bigelow popped her head in the room. "Major? The… The procession will be starting in five minutes. Colonel told me to let you know."

Margaret looked down at her simple black dress, rather ugly, in her opinion. But it was the nicest clothes she had now. She'd burned her army uniform last night. She gave a silent nod to the doorway where Bigelow had stood, and it took all of her willpower to drag her body up from the stool and walk outside.

The entire camp was there. Every single one of them. And behind the flock of personnel, there trailed a long line of villagers, all whose lives Hawkeye had touched in one way or another. Some held candles, others brushes of flowers laced with incense. Colonel had mounted his horse, and everyone was dressed in their regalia. Patients were even hobbling along, those who were well enough to stay or had not been re-routed to the 8063rd for the day.

There were quiet sobs echoing throughout the crowd, hushed murmurings and somber conversations. All noise ceased, however, when the trumpet sounded. Corporal O'Malley, a patient who'd been treated for a broken leg, happened to be a musical prodigy and had gotten a scholarship to college for his skills with brass. He'd more than offered to play the wake, and the classic army tune rang through the forests and hills.

The crowd started moving, slowly and deliberately, as if dragging their feet would delay the captain's burial. Colonel led the way, face agonized as he coaxed his horse onwards. BJ, Charles, Klinger, and Father were the pallbearers. Margaret didn't dare look at their faces. The coffin was a simple pine box, decorated with roses and bushels of lavender, daisies and clover, all of which were picked by the villagers and set in traditional order. No one could've guessed it was the bravest, most heroic, most loved captain in the world that lay inside.

Margaret stumbled along at the front of the nurses gathering, the world seemingly moving by in slow motion. She hadn't even noticed when they had reached their destination. It wasn't until Kelleye gently rested a hand on her shoulder that she stopped walking.

It was a field of tall, golden grass that stretched for at least a mile, vacant of any shelled huts or bullet-pierced vehicles. A few trees dotted the landscape, and the coffin was set underneath a willow. _Strange,_ she thought, _I didn't know willows grew in Korea._

Father stood before all of them, shoulders slumped in somber fashion. He cleared his throat and dabbed at his eyes, a bible in his hand, and began to read the burial prayers in Latin and English. Margaret didn't listen to the somber creeds, didn't even look up when he cast holy water into the crowd and sprinkled some on the coffin.

A simple, six foot deep rectangular grave had been dug. Beside it stood two South Korean soldiers, rifles in hand, guarding the ceremony with vigilant eyes. Father finished the blessing with his cross, tears lightly staining his cheeks from behind his wire rimmed glasses.

"We will now… Now hear a word from the villagers of Ouijambu, who generously asked to contribute some of their customs to the resting of Hawkeye's soul." He announced, voice broken. The line of people who'd been trailing the camp stepped forward, and Margaret watched as children, women, men and elders came up to the site of the grave and began chanting.

Their hymn seemed to strike a deeper chord with the major- though she couldn't understand a word of it, it seemed to speak to her feelings more than the traditional Catholic prayers. It was a loud, almost hysteric, chorus of wailings and shouted incantations up to the skies. Incense and symbols were waved about as a few of the elders blessed the coffin, their meanings unknown to the Americans, yet sincere and somber on such a level that touched them all.

The children stood in a circle around the adults, clapping their hands along to the beat of it all. A little boy stood to the side, beating a canvas drum. Then, one by one, the villagers laid flowers and offerings around the grave, making an outline of color in the mud colored landscape. The hymns faded, and soon they all filed back to join the rest of the personnel.

And then came time to lay the coffin in the ground.

However, before they could lift it in, a shrill howl tore through the air. BJ was doubled over, clutching the pine box, weeping shamelessly in a raw cry of pain. He kept pleading Hawkeye to come back hysterically, refusing to let go when Sydney and Klinger gently tried to coax him away from his brother.

Margaret didn't even know what she was doing, but before her mind could object she found herself kneeling beside BJ, arms wrapped around him, burying his face in her shoulder. And ever so slowly and with the utmost care, his shaking hands were pried away from the coffin and he collapsed into Margaret's arms. The blonde nurse ran her own trembling hands over BJ's hair, stroking his head and whispering unconscious soothing nothings into his ear.

And the two of them watched together, through a tear glazed view, as the heart and soul of the 4077th was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt.


	5. Chapter 5

"BJ, look," Margaret's voice was soft against the night air as she tilted her face up to the sky. A wide, black velvety canvas full of stars gazed back at them, the moon only a sliver of a crescent.

BJ halfheartedly shifted his eyes upward from their spot on the water tower, taking it in for himself.

"Isn't it… Beautiful?" Margaret whispered, eyes shining. Her legs were dangling off the edge of the platform they were sitting on, the rickety old ladder creaking sporadically below them. It was a quiet place to come and sit, one neither of them had ever thought about but in search of sanctuary from recent events sought refuge on.

BJ leant against the wooden guardrails, watching the sky. He hadn't said anything since the funeral, and afterwards the two hadn't let go of each other. Nobody had followed them up here, giving the two friends time to seek comfort out. Margaret was growing worried about his silence, and kept coaxing him to say something, anything.

She was met with the sound of crickets and a slight breeze.

She sighed, shifting so she could be closer to the blonde doctor. "My father used to show me all the constellations," she said again, carrying on a discombobulated monologue, "those up there are the seven sisters, see? Those ones all in a line?" she pointed to a row of softly twinkling dots.

BJ looked up at them thoughtfully, as if he was planning to say something, but then shut his mouth again. His face was exhausted and tear stained, eyes empty. And then, in that very moment as she watched the broken man, Margaret did something she hadn't done in a long time. She unbottled the carefully sealed chest of her feelings, ones that she'd held in since the war began. She was too numb to consider the outcome or anything else, really. And in truth, she didn't know if she was doing it for BJ or herself. She hoped both.

"He loved you, you know," she breathed, memories flooding back to her, "you were his brother. Related or not, you and him were cut from the same cloth."

BJ's eyes glimmered with awareness and became clear and attentive so fast that it scared the Major. She looked back at him, forcing their eyes to meet. "I used to think that Trapper and him were close… And they were. Trapper John, his old partner in crime. They were inseparable, and when he left it just… devastated him. God, BJ, he was so broken-hearted. We were all afraid he would never be himself again, he'd never have that mischief that made him both charming and a bit of a jackass." She mused, and to her surprise a faint chuckle escaped the both of them. "But then… Then you came along."

BJ rested his head against the guardrail, listening intently. Margaret's heart thudded in her ears, and her throat felt as wide as a pin hole. "You, BJ Hunnicutt, were the fresh out of the states family man with that golden smile… Annoyed the hell out of him."

The blonde doctor raised an eyebrow, but the corner of his lips curved upwards. His eyes glimmered with unshed tears.

Margaret looked at her hands, the gentle night wind blowing blonde strands about her gaunt face as she spoke. "I'm not sure what happened between you two, but something changed. At first we all thought you were just another replacement, you know? Nothing could fill what Trapper left behind… But you changed something, BJ. You brought him back. You didn't replace Trapper, but you were what Hawkeye was looking for, what he needed. You were his rock, and he knew that." Her voice cracked, and BJ had tears once more coursing down his cheeks. "You saved him in more… In more ways than one. And he'd want you to go out and have a beer and make it through this, a-and go home and kiss that wife and daughter of yours. You two were, still are, family. So don't you ever blame yourself for any of this, BJ Hunnicutt, do you understand me?"

They were crying into each other's arms faster than either of them could blink. BJ held her close, his face in her hair. "I loved him… God, I loved him so much… He was my l-little brother, I loved him… I loved him." He finally spoke, over and over again repeating the words, body shaking.

"He knew, honey… he knew that. I know he did. He knew it, BJ, he loved you, too… He knew it." She soothed, her own face streaked in tears as she rubbed his back. "We'll be ok. It'll be alright. We'll be ok."

And she didn't know if it was the dim lighting, or the fact that she was so utterly exhausted, but under that sky she swore she saw Hawkeye smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

**I own nothing! (except Christopher). Thank you for all who supported me with your reviews! I hope you enjoyed this story and I will continue to write more in the future.**

1953

BJ stood under the willow tree, tugging absently at his stiff uniform in the hot summer weather. He fidgeted nervously and knelt down before Hawkeye's grave, placing a bouquet of flowers beneath the fading wooden cross tied together with twine.

"War's over, Hawk." He managed to croak, a small tentative smile quirking upwards at his lips. "I'll be going home soon… Peg says I better hurry up. I guess Erin's been a handful, you know, she's old enough to get into the cupboards now." BJ laughed softly, fingers lightly tracing the dirt around his knees. It had been a crazy 9 months since his best friend's death. So much has changed, BJ thought solemnly.

A new surgeon had been transferred to the 4077th shortly after. So short, in fact, that it got BJ drunk enough to smash the still to pieces while simultaneously weeping at the lack of his companion. Charles had dropped his Bostonian attitude in those fragile months, silently helping BJ to bed and saying nothing of it the next day. The blond doctor never thought he'd be so grateful to have the upper-class bunkmate and truly regarded him as a dear friend.

The surgeon's name was Christopher. He was a tall, burly man with curly red hair and a kind, seasoned demeanor. He had heard the full story of what had happened to get him there, and felt a dull pain as he could only imagine what everybody had gone through. He was respectful and quiet, and endured BJ's cold shoulder and outright bitter harshness towards him in the first few weeks without a word. At first, BJ hated him. He didn't even know the man and he hated him with a passion. It was so unlike him to be this way, and with a tormented heart he thought of how Hawkeye would admonish him for it. _You're not cynical, Beej, that's my department. Stay the good, optimistic guy you are. It suits you better,_ He imagined the black haired surgeon reminding him.

It took months of once a week meetings of therapy with Sydney and a few miserable drunken nights to realize that he didn't hate Christopher. He hated the reason why he was there in the first place. He hated the fact that his best friend, his brother, his rock was gone. He hated Korea for starting this war and he hated America for sending their men into it. He hated whatever higher power existed that brought Hawkeye down, cursed him with the deadly fever. If he was asked at the beginning of their friendship how he thought Hawkeye would meet his end, he would have been sure it would be in a blazing moment of glory. Hawkeye would die saving a patient from a Chinese soldier, shielding a little village child from the shelling. Never something so benign, so silent. _The war could never tame you, buddy,_ BJ thought sadly, _trying to catch you is like trying to catch the wind, isn't it? You were never meant for all this. None of us were, but especially you. Never Hawkeye Pierce, with the wild spirit. Never, Hawk, never._

He thought he wouldn't get over his best friend's death at all. That he would remain a blubbering pile of tears until the day he died. And some days, he still felt that way. But, as time went on, the unbearable fire of agony in his soul turned to a dull ache that he learned to live with. Always there, but manageable.

Things started to get better. Margaret had stayed with him the whole way- BJ never thought the two would get so close, or that the great Major Houlihan could change so profoundly within the span of a few days. She had completely abandoned her old way of life as an 'army brat', so to speak. She no longer demanded the rank respect code whenever someone spoke to her, never defended the US military again. She even burnt her uniform the day before Hawkeye's funeral, and no one dared question her when she walked around the compound in a soft blue blouse and simple pants. Her face was less harsh now, her features softer and voice quieter. She and BJ had shared a tent those first few weeks after the captain's death.

Though the relationship was completely platonic, BJ sometimes wondered if he should feel guilty sleeping side by side with another woman. However, when he woke screaming in grief filled night terrors, Margaret was there and held him and vise versa. Neither of them questioned their relationship again. They were like the last living vessels that carried on Hawkeye's legacy, his brother and would-be lover.

Three months into the course of events, Margaret had confessed to BJ something she thought would never leave her lips. That in one of his lucid spells during the time he was sick, they agreed to give themselves another chance, acknowledging that they both had feelings for each other. Margaret cried when she told BJ that she never got to tell him that she didn't _just_ have feelings for him. She loved him. She wept to BJ that the man, dead as he is, meant more to her than any other army brass starred GI ever did. That she would gladly be his wife, spend all eternity with him. " _I would marry you, Ben,"_ she'd cried, " _I do, I do, I d-... I would, I w-would…"._

BJ held her without letting go once for three whole days after her confession.

As time passed, he also was determined to try becoming better friends with Christopher, under the colonel's gentle guidance. He discovered that there was more to the surgeon than what met the eye- he was a graduate of UCLA med, one of the top in his class, and could carry on in depth, interesting medical conversations with BJ for hours. He often liked to brag about his 'full blooded' Scottish heritage, how his parents met in a romantic journey from Glasgow to New York. He was from Colorado, loved basketball, and was pretty good at humor himself. The two of them never brought up Hawkeye, but over time they developed a newfound respect for one another and BJ eventually became comfortable with calling him 'friend'.

Nobody ever called the blond captain 'Beej' again, though.

And now, 9 months later, here he was under the old willow again. He told Hawkeye about how the whole camp danced and partied themselves unconscious when they found out- no more wounded, no more shredded bodies of shrapnel and shattered dreams of young men. No more.

"My plane leaves for New York in twenty minutes." BJ spoke softly to the grave. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. A tear slid down his cheek but he ignored it. He took a shuddery breath and gently, with shaking hands, stroked the wooden cross lightly. "You already know everything I have to say, Hawk," he choked out, "I know you do… I would rather go to war all over again a thousand times, buddy, than go for one second without having met you. A-and as awful as this hell was, I don't regret a moment of it. I don't care how many years older than me you are, Pierce, you'll always be my little brother," he laughed brokenly, voice raw and eyes pink. "a part of my family, a part of me… And I'll always love you."

A slight breeze rustled through the air, causing the vines of the willow hanging low to brush gently up against BJ's cheeks. He closed his eyes, took one last breath, and stood up to head towards the jeep waiting to take him to Kimpo airfield.

And perched up high on the very top branch of the willow tree, a sleek brown hawk rustled its strong wings and watched him drive away with thoughtful blue eyes, willing to wait for all eternity.

The end.


End file.
